


I know you know

by Vanimelda4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Confused John, John is a Bit Not Good, Light Angst, M/M, sherlock might also be a bit not good, they have communication problems, they have sex instead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanimelda4/pseuds/Vanimelda4
Summary: John is straight.He has a girlfriend.Too bad the sex with Sherlock is so good.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 29
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

There is an ashtray in the windowsill.  
The remains of a partially smoked cigarette lay inside of it.  
With the remains of the cigarette only partially extinguished a thin trail of smoke still rises from its tip.  
It swirls up into the night sky through the opened window, finding itself a home amongst the wispy clouds that cover up the moon and stars.  
Another, properly lit, cigarette is held loosely between Sherlock's long and elegant fingers.  
He leans himself out of the window as he smokes it.  
His elbows resting on the windowsill as his back curves.  
The upper half of his body is bare and in the dimly lit hotel-room John, from his position on the bed, can just make out the ridges of his spine.  
Sherlock is naked except for a pair of small black boxer-shorts.  
As far as John is concerned he shouldn't even have bothered putting those on.  
It's not as if John hasn't seen what's underneath them before.  
After all, they've just had sex about 15 minutes ago.  
And the hotel-room window is so high up that nobody walking around on the streets of the city will be able to steal a look anyway.  
Not that a lot of people will be out and about at this time of night.  
A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table tells him it's 3:15 am. 

Sherlock takes a drag from his cigarette.  
He holds his breath for a couple of seconds before he lets the inhaled smoke pour out past his lips once more.  
It swirls in intricate patterns as it drifts out into the night where John eventually loses sight of it. 

Neither of them have spoken in quite a while.  
John doesn't mind.  
He likes the silence that usually falls between them in these stolen moments.  
It gives him time to think.  
Time to get his thoughts straight.  
Time to figure out what the hell he's actually doing. 

This isn't the first time Sherlock and him have had sex in some cheap hotel-room and it probably won't be the last. 

John is not gay.  
He knows he's not.  
He has a girlfriend after all.  
Mary.  
Mary must never find out about.....this......whatever “this” is. 

The first time had sort of been an accident....or.....rather....that's what he tells himself.  
He had had a fight with Mary.  
Right now he can't quite remember what they had been fighting about anymore......it was months ago after all.  
He had stormed out of Mary's dorm-room and before he knew it he had found himself utterly and completely drunk in some bar or another.  
These details are also vague to him now.  
It doesn't matter.  
They're just details after all.  
The devil's in the details......  
Isn't that what they say? 

Sherlock had been there too. 

Sherlock had been......gorgeous and.....mysterious......and.....everything that Mary was not. 

Sherlock had been confusing. 

He had been......

Around closing time Sherlock had asked John if he wanted to come with him. 

John had said yes.  
He had had nowhere else to go after all. 

They had slept together for the first time that night.  
It had been awkward and strange and yet also......

It had been in a hotel-room similar to this one......but not the same.  
They've never been in this hotel before. 

After that night John had made himself believe that it had all been a mistake.  
Just a one time thing.  
Just.......nothing......

He had called Sherlock again the next week. 

And two weeks after that.

And......

He steals a glance at Sherlock where he is still smoking his cigarette, casually leaning out of the window.  
His hair is dark and messy. John can barely see it as it blends in with the darkness that seeps into the room from outside.  
He remembers running his fingers through it....pulling on it.....jet-black curls that frame a pale face with sharp edges, high cheekbones, pale blue eyes and Cupid's bow lips. 

Once again Sherlock exhales a cloud of nicotine-filled smoke.  
His lips form a loose 'O' as he does so.  
John feels his cock twitch beneath the sheets as he watches silently. 

He doesn't know what he's doing here.  
Again.  
He's straight.  
This.......  
It's just to let off steam.  
Because of all the drama he's been having with Mary lately.  
This......  
It doesn't mean anything.  
It doesn't......

_This_

There is not a lot he knows about Sherlock.  
He knows he gives a damn good blow-job.  
And he knows what it feels like to thrust inside of him.  
How his naked skin feels underneath John's grasping hands.  
How his back will arch and the muscles in his long legs will tense and stretch just so when he's close to orgasm.  
How his lashes flutter and his pupils dilate, leaving only a sliver of iridescent blue iris around their edges. 

Sherlock has turned himself around at the windowsill.  
He is giving John an inscrutable look as he takes another drag from his cigarette.  
Under it John feels exposed.  
Somehow laid bare.  
Although the situation is nothing new.  
Sherlock has seen him like this a dozen times already.  
He suddenly finds the dark quiet atmosphere of the room oppressive....suffocating.  
He reaches for something to say.  
Anything.  
Anything to break this sudden, charged tension between them. 

“You know those things are bad for you, right?” he says, as he gestures towards the half-smoked cigarette that still dangles elegantly from between Sherlock's slim and clever fingers. 

“There are a lot of things that are bad for you”, Sherlock says. The look on his face still gives nothing away but he keeps it fixed on John. 

John coughs as he casts his eyes down.  
The sound far too loud and grating to his own ears.  
Once again he is reminded of the fact that he knows nothing at all about Sherlock. 

Except for the fact that, on occasion, they fuck.  
Whenever John feels confused...or angry.....or sad....or.....a combination of all three of them....he will call Sherlock, they agree to meet in some dingy hotel-room or other and they fuck. 

Nothing more and nothing less. 

It doesn't mean anything. 

Nothing at all. 

John has a girlfriend.

And on every single one of their encounters Sherlock never gives off more than an air of bored indifference. 

John is nothing to him. 

Just something.....someone....to pass the time. 

To wile away the lonely hours of the night when every other sane person is in their own bed and asleep. 

He coughs again and the sound is just as out of place the second time. 

Maybe if he knew something more about Sherlock....maybe he wouldn't feel so cheap and dirty about the whole ordeal then.....maybe he wouldn't feel......whatever it is he's been starting to feel lately. 

“So”, he says, “do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Sherlock raises a haughty eyebrow.  
“Trying to get a threesome going?”

“What?.....No!......No!.....I mean.....I was just........”

Sherlock chuckles.  
The sound is dark and rich and it makes John's throat go dry as his lungs, all of a sudden, seem too large for his constrictive chest. 

“Just joking, John”, he says as he extinguishes his cigarette next to the one already in the ashtray and places a fresh one between his soft lips.  
His eyes momentarily blaze up like coals in a furnace as he lights it. 

John finds he has run out of questions. 

Sherlock always seems to be so at ease.  
So sure of himself.  
So “suave”.  
So...... _him_.

He wonders if Sherlock does this.....whatever “this”.....between them is.... with other men too.  
If that's the reason why he seems so unbothered by it all.  
At the thought of Sherlock with someone else....some strange unknown face.....touching him....kissing him......making him moan in that special way he does when John gets it just right......someone else seeing him like this.....loose.....relaxed....... _private_....John's stomach does a strange flip. 

Suddenly he feels he _has_ to know.  
His fingers have suddenly become restless..  
He twists the sheets on the bed in between them. Squeezes the fabric tightly.  
The bed still smells like sweat and sex and....them.  
He _has_ to know. 

He has to......

He doesn't know how to ask and so the question he poses is awkward and fairly obvious. 

“Have you taken many people to this hotel?” he asks.  
There is a sharp edge to his voice he doesn't recognize. 

Sherlock's face is a cold mask in the darkness of the room.  
Once again devoid of emotion.  
But this time there is something in the depths of his eyes that betrays him.  
A flicker of......  
It's gone before John's hazy mind can register what it is exactly. 

“Out of the two of us”, Sherlock replies, “you are the one with the most bed partners.”

Mary. 

Of course Sherlock knows about Mary. 

Has known from the start.  
Had known when they started this whole ordeal. 

They just fuck. 

That's all they do. 

Only occasionally. 

When John needs it. 

When he is.....

When.....

He has no right to be jealous. 

Why would he be jealous? 

He's not jealous. 

He's straight. 

He has a girlfriend. 

This....whatever it is....it's just stress relief.....it's just......

Sherlock is still looking at him. 

“I'm sorry”, John says, but he doesn't know why he says it. 

Sherlock gives him a smile but it's almost.....sad?

There is another oppressive silence between them.  
Cold, heavy and ominous like the night that surrounds them.  
Outside a car alarm goes off but neither of them pays it any mind. 

There are things.  
Things that neither of them says.  
Neither of them wants to say.  
But they are there.  
Words in the silence.  
Hiding in the dark corners of every single hotel-room they find themselves in.  
It's a new hotel every time.  
A new room.  
A different bed.  
But the words are always there.  
And they whisper to them out of the darkness. 

“Mycroft”, Sherlock says. 

“I'm sorry, what?”

“I have a brother....his name is Mycroft.”

“Oh.”

John doesn't know what else to say.  
His words have left him.  
They have fled like frightened animals out of the window and into the night. 

Sherlock closes the window but his cigarette is still lit.  
His last inhaled breath filters back out past his half opened lips and it dissipates into the room around them.

“I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here”, John says. 

Sherlock gives him another smirk and once again John's chest and insides do strange things.  
“Then give me something else to do.”

The cigarette finds itself a home in the ashtray with the other discarded ends and Sherlock's boxers disappear somewhere on the floor between the window and the bed.  
All too soon John finds Sherlock underneath him on the mattress. The sheets and blankets a tangled mess around their legs and feet.  
Sherlock's skin is smooth and soft but the muscles underneath hard and tense as he wraps his legs around John's waist as John thrusts into him. 

Sherlock moans as John hits that perfect spot just inside of him.  
The sound seductive and intoxicating. 

_This is wrong_ John thinks. 

_This is right_

_This is....._

He needs to not think right now.  
Stop his mind from racing. 

He thrusts faster and harder, becoming almost violent. 

Sherlock's moans grow deeper as his searching hands reach up like claws and his nails draw marks on John's back for Mary to find and possibly question him about as he desperately holds on to him. 

Sherlock's pupils are blown wide.  
His lips wet, glistening in the moonlight that filters in through the window, slightly parted.  
Warm puffs of air ghost over John's cheek and the side of his neck every time he bottoms out. 

_This is......_

Inside, Sherlock feels warm and soft and tight and.....

John needs to stop thinking.

He needs to...

Anything.

Nothing.

If only Sherlock wasn't making those noises.

If he wasn't so.....

If they both.....

Together.

He crushes his lips to Sherlock's in a fevered kiss fueled by fire and lust and wanting and.....

Kissing Sherlock always leaves a slightly bitter and salty taste in his mouth.  
Sherlock tastes like cigarettes.  
He tastes like......

As John climaxes his mind goes blissfully silent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV.

Trails of cigarette smoke gently drift through the opened window of the cheap hotel-room out into the dark of the night-sky.  
Sherlock watches them silently as, one by one, they disappear in intricate patterns. 

_Nicotine._

_Hydrogen cyanide._

_Formaldehyde._

There are a lot of chemical components that make up the smoke trail of a lit cigarette.  
Silently he lists them one by one in his head.  
The night is too still, too calm, around him.  
He doesn't do well with quiet.  
This lack of motion,turbulence.  
It makes his skin crawl and his head ache.  
So he tries to find distractions in the quiet, lethal dullness that surrounds him wherever he can. 

He places the cigarette that currently dangles from his fingers between his lips and closes his eyes as he inhales. 

_Lead._

_Arsenic._

_Ammonia._

_Benzene…._

He holds the noxious fumes captive in his lungs for a couple of seconds before he opens his eyes, exhales and watches as they dissipate amongst the clouds and stars and the relative dark of a London city midnight. 

Behind him someone stirs in the hotel-bed. 

_John._

He doesn't have to look back to know that. 

He had wondered if John had, perhaps, fallen asleep.  
It's late and it wouldn't be the first time he had done so after they had had sex. 

John looks different when he is asleep. 

More vulnerable, softer.....somehow, more......something. 

Once again Sherlock brings the cigarette to his lips. 

This had only supposed to be a one time thing.  
He's met John in six different hotel-rooms so far.  
He doesn't know why.  
Well, maybe he knows why.  
He chooses not to think on the why.  
Some questions are best left as is.  
Unanswered and unsolved.  
Or, better yet, never asked. 

Like the question why he had taken John with him that first time.  
Why he had offered.  
He doesn't know.  
Well....he chooses not to know.  
When you know your own mind you can choose whatever you keep in there and whatever you hide behind heavy doors with heavy locks.....or clouds of cigarette smoke....or the rush of cocaine...

He had been high the first time he had met John.  
Had John found him in a more coherent state things would probably not have ended up as they have....or maybe they would still......maybe there is a form of inevitability to the world that nobody is able to change. 

“I have a girlfriend”, John had said. 

“I don't care”, he had replied, “are you coming or not?”

There had been a fraction of a second of doubt in John's eyes. Blink and you'll miss it. Gone before either of them could address it.  
And then John had just nodded. 

_Okay_

Okay. 

And that had been that. 

“I'm not gay”, John had said.

And: “I have a girlfriend.”

And: “This doesn't mean anything.”

Once again Sherlock had replied: “I don't care.”

And then John's hands had been on him, undressing him, searching fingers and lips, his skin afire, his veins seemingly overflowing with hot lava as his heart seemed to want to leap out if his chest.  
He had been overcome with a sudden aching, a _need_ , a wanting...he had guided John's hands to where the need had been greatest.  
His memories of their first time are somewhat hazy and fragmented as he thinks back on them now.  
As if, back then, John had not only undone his body with the persistent coaxing of his lips, tongue and hands but had unraveled the spool of his thoughts as well.  
Had jumbled them up in a complicated mess.  
Exploded them with the fire and heat of his touch. 

It had all been over far too quickly.

It had all supposed to have been a one time thing.  
Sherlock had had no intentions of seeing John again.  
A spectacular high but only temporarily.  
Only once.  
Getting involved with straight men or men with girlfriends was always messy and complicated.  
And John was both.  
This is the last time I'll see him, he told himself.  
And it nearly had been. 

John, awkward and new to this whole experience, had tried to give Sherlock money.  
Maybe he had looked like he needed it.  
He probably had.  
Skinny, gaunt, disheveled......high.

“If this is what you usually do after sex I can understand why your girlfriend is mad at you”, Sherlock had said. 

John had flushed, eyes cast down to his feet, the money in his hand, fingers fidgeting, unsure, never been in this situation before, endearing......no....

“No”, John had said, “No....I mean.....I'm sorry....It's just.....I've never done this before. I have a girlfriend......I've never......I'm straight.”

“Could have fooled me”, Sherlock had deadpanned. 

And that should have been the end of it.  
He should have walked away, he should have.....

But then John had done something.  
He had smiled.  
Nervous.  
Unsure.  
Hesitant.  
But honest. 

It had done things to Sherlock.  
He's still not sure what exactly, but......he had given John his phone-number. 

He had not expected John to call. 

John had called him a week later. 

And Sherlock had gone to him.  
They don't speak much when they are together.  
They just fuck.  
He knows that's the way John wants it.  
He knows what he is to John.  
Something to take his mind off of things when the world around him gets to be too much.  
Sherlock can relate.  
He thinks of the cocaine that's still coursing through his own veins at the moment.  
The nicotine and cigarette smoke that fills his lungs and throat.  
He has many vices himself.  
Who is he to blame John for this one. 

Every time John calls him he vows to himself that this.....surely, this will be the last time he takes John up on his offer.  
But then.....in an unguarded moment.....that smile.....and Sherlock knows he can't say no.  
Not to John.  
He's always had a hard time turning down any form of temptation. 

Always the addict in need of a fix. 

John stirs again behind him.  
He most certainly is awake. 

Sherlock turns himself around and leans back on his elbows against the windowsill.  
He can only partly make out the shape of John in the darkness of the room.  
They never turn on any lights.  
He assumes that's the way John likes it. 

“You know those things are bad for you, right?”, John says. 

The cigarette. Of course he's talking about the cigarette. Only half-smoked but not the first one Sherlock has smoked tonight.  
Trying to clear his mind. Chase away the fog that John's touch always seems to leave inside of his head whenever they are together. 

“There are a lot of things that are bad for you”, Sherlock replies. 

_cocaine_ , he thinks. 

_heroine_

_getting involved with a straight man with a girlfriend_

He keeps his eyes fixed on John.  
Hoping he will understand what he is trying to say.  
What he wants to say but can't say. 

John looks away before he is able to find out.

The silence between them is laden, oppressive and heavy.  
It's like a physical force.  
It makes Sherlock uncomfortable. 

_This is the last time_ , he thinks. 

_I should end this_

Nothing good will come of it.  
Sure, the sex is nice, it's great, it's fantastic.....he's pretty certain John enjoys it too......but with sex.....intimacy....inevitably comes the getting to know someone.  
No-strings attached is a nice idea but it's only a matter of time before someone will be stupid enough to start asking questions and then....

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”, John asks. 

And there it is. 

The question seems harmless enough but, if he answers it, it will be the first of many.  
John will find out more and more about him and with the 'knowing' will come the 'disliking'.  
He has seen it happen before.  
Maybe John thinks this will bring them closer but, eventually, these small grains of knowledge about Sherlock's personal life will end up becoming the salt that spoils the sweet meal.....the sand in the oil that makes the cogs of the machine stop turning....it is the beginning of the end. 

He gives an evasive answer....a non-answer.....and disguises it as a joke.  
“Trying to get a threesome going?”

John flushes prettily in the dark, casts his eyes down and stammers through an apology. 

Sherlock lights another cigarette.

 _Carbon monoxide and nitrosamines_ he thinks but his throat and mouth have gone dry and the cigarette doesn't taste like much of anything. 

_With the knowing_ , he thinks, _comes the leaving_

He has never felt as alone as he does now in this particular hotel-room.  
The distance between him and John only a couple of paces but at this moment it seems insurmountable. 

“Have you taken many people to this hotel?” John asks. 

And the words sting.  
Is that what John thinks of him?  
Is that what John thinks he is? What he does?  
But, then again, he hasn't given him much reason to believe otherwise.  
In the past, on occasion, he has taken men up on offers.  
Traded his body for a line of cocaine.  
He doesn't do that anymore.  
John has no way of knowing what he does or doesn't do.  
What he used to do.  
The cigarette tastes like death and the inhaled smoke seems reluctant to leave his body as it lines the inside of his mouth and chest.  
For a moment Sherlock finds it hard to breathe.  
The brief moment of panic that comes over him must show clearly in his eyes because John gives him a strange look. 

And then it is gone. 

“I'm sorry”, John says. 

Sherlock doesn't reply. 

The silence between them is vast, heavy and all consuming.  
It pushes on his shoulders like a physical force.  
Outside a car alarm goes off.  
It's like a warning sign.  
Telling him not to do it.  
Not to do this.  
Telling him to leave.  
Or maybe telling him not to leave.  
Warning him that, if he gives in to John now, he is only setting himself up for disappointment and loss later. 

So which is the better option? 

Spare himself the grief that is to come when John finds out more and more about him and decides his girlfriend is the far better option....

_I'm not gay......I have a girlfriend_

or selfishly enjoy these moments that he still has with John ignoring the blaring warning signs that tell him of the catastrophic end that will, no doubt, come. 

He doesn't know. 

He glances at John.  
There is a look on John's face.  
One he has never seen there before.  
He doesn't know what it means.  
He is desperate to know what it means. 

“Mycroft”, he hears himself say. 

John looks confused. It's a good look on him. 

_with the knowing, inevitability, comes the leaving_

“I have a brother.....his name is Mycroft.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock finds that, right now, he needs to not think.  
His mind is racing.  
Coming up with all kinds of scenarios of how this is going to end poorly.  
Probably for the both of them. 

He closes the window and takes another drag of his cigarette.  
It tastes of nothing.  
Drained of its comforting toxins.  
This time it does nothing to calm him down.  
He holds the smoke in his lungs longer than usual but still he tastes nothing. 

_Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons_ , he thinks. 

“I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here”, John says. 

“Then give me something else to do”, Sherlock replies. 

The cigarette finds itself a home in the ashtray on the windowsill.  
A cemetery of ash and paper and smoke.  
A symbol of things that wither out and die and Sherlock pays it as little attention as he possibly can. 

Things have been set in motion that cannot be undone.  
Everything has an ending.  
Nothing lasts forever.  
Rules of the universe.  
He is very good at ending things.  
Not so much at the keeping things.  
Holding them.  
Keeping them whole and untouched instead of destroying them and tearing them down piece by piece. 

The decay of whatever it is that they have has already begun and he knows it.  
Mycroft's name the first brick torn out of the wall he has so carefully constructed.  
Soon there will be nothing left and he will be laid bare for all to see.  
For John to see.  
John will not like what he sees. 

John's hands trace the outline of his ribs as Sherlock lays naked on his back on the bed underneath him.  
John's fingers are warm and steady.  
Anchors that keep him grounded and prevent him from flying away into the night sky together with the smoke of the smoldering remains of his cigarettes.  
John's lips find the hollow at the bottom of his throat and Sherlock moans and spreads his legs. 

John is on top of him, inside of him.  
The weight of him comforting, familiar and all consuming.  
Sherlock feels his mind grind to a blissful halt.  
All coherent thoughts driven out of him by John's ministrations. 

He moans again and again but the sound is foreign and strange to his own ears.  
As if it's someone else making it.  
John is moving faster inside of him now.  
The pounding of his hips could be painful if Sherlock wasn't enjoying it so much.  
He finds he needs it.  
Needs John.  
Needs all he can give him.  
His arms reach up on their own volition and grab on to John's back, his shoulders, any piece of him he can reach.  
He fears that if he doesn't he might fly away into the night after all.  
Even though it is the middle of the night the room around him is full of colors and lights now.  
An explosion of fireworks every time John bottoms out harshly.  
It might be the remains of his last hit of cocaine making him see things that aren't there, it might be John, it might be....

John kisses him. 

His searching lips just as needy and brutal as his thrusting hips, driving his hard cock deep into Sherlock's body down below. 

John's lips, his tongue, his kiss....it drives away the last remains of the ashy layer of death the last cigarette had left in his mouth. 

John tastes like life and sweetness.  
John tastes like a future....

John tastes like lies. 

A fairytale he has chosen to believe. 

Never before has tragedy tasted so good. 

And as John groans and climaxes inside of him he feels himself coming apart and he is not sure whether either of them will be able to ever put the pieces back together again.  
He finds he doesn't care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why I wrote a second chapter to this story but I sure did.  
> I sure did.....


	3. Chapter 3

John's not entirely sure how he even ended up at this party.  
He didn't really want to come and he doesn't know anyone here besides Mary and maybe Mike. The latter in a very vague and roundabout way. Meaning he's pretty sure Mike is short and has glasses but that's about it.  
Of course it was Mary who finally got him to agree to come in the end.  
Mary is pretty good at getting him to agree to do things he actually does not want to do at all.  
Like going to house-parties.  
Very crowded house-parties.  
Where he knows virtually no one and of course Mary has disappeared about an hour ago and he hasn't been able to find her since.  
Granted, after Mary had walked off with Sarah to go and dance because, apparently, John was “no fun” and after 15 minutes there was still no sign of her, he didn't really look for her all that hard anyway. 

In these moments he kind of likes being on his own. 

At least, on his own, he can drink in peace.  
He's on his second whiskey at this point and he's had about five beers before that.  
His mind is filled with a pleasant haze that drowns out the obnoxious, far too loud, music that echoes through the room around him.  
There are so many people here.  
He tries to see if he recognizes Mike amidst the sea of bodies surrounding him.  
And then he sees him.  
Not Mike.  
But another far too familiar shape. 

Sherlock. 

Sherlock is not supposed to be here.  
The parts of John's life that do and do not contain Sherlock in it should be kept separate at all times.  
They can not merge or overlap.  
It will create a mess.  
It will create chaos.......it will create trouble.......confusion.  
He is already confused enough as it is where Sherlock is concerned.  
Who Sherlock is.  
Who Sherlock is to him.  
Who he is to Sherlock. 

Sherlock cannot be here. 

For a moment his drunken brain fills in the blanks with all kinds of paranoid explanations:  
_Sherlock has followed him here._

_Sherlock is going to tell Mary about them._

_Sherlock has already told Mary about them._

_Sherlock will tell everybody....._

Sherlock doesn't seem to have noticed him looking. Sherlock is standing in a corner of the room, black dress-shirt, black tight jeans with his hands shoved in the pockets and a rather bored look on his face.  
John feels himself getting angry.  
Why _is_ Sherlock here? 

And so he downs the last of his whiskey, sets the glass on a nearby table and decides to take matters into his own hands. 

****************************************

“What the hell are you doing here?!”  
With the loud music thumping around them John needs to raise his voice in order for Sherlock to hear him but he also does not want any of the other party-goers to overhear what they are talking about so in the end his words come out as a sort of 'shouted whisper' between clenched teeth. 

To his credit Sherlock looks just as shocked as John feels when he confronts him but he quickly regains his composure.  
The smooth bastard.  
Why does everything about him have to elegant and dark and tall and.....John stops himself from finishing that thought. 

“I'm enjoying the party”, Sherlock shouts back at him clearly not trying to lower the volume of his baritone voice at all.  
John glances around the room guiltily but none of the other people here seem to be paying them and their conversation the least bit of attention. 

“You cannot be here”, John says. 

Sherlock pretends he doesn't hear what he's saying. 

“You cannot be here!”, John says again, a little bit louder this time. This time a girl in a short skirt and far too much make-up gives him an annoyed look but she quickly goes back to dancing again.  
John moves a bit closer to Sherlock so he won't have to shout quite so loud during the rest of this conversation.  
Sherlock gives him an odd sort of smile.  
John feels his stomach lurch. He wishes he hadn't drunk quite so much alcohol. The room is starting to spin around him and Sherlock.....Sherlock is only making it worse. 

“I was invited.”  
Standing this close John can feel Sherlock's breath on the skin of his cheek and neck and his stomach flips again. 

“You need to leave”, he grits out, “my girlfriend is here.”

“Sounds more like your problem than mine.”

Sherlock looks so relaxed. So cool. So in control of himself.  
John hates him.  
He hates ever having talked to him.  
He hates having taken him up on his offer.  
Having called him again and again.  
All the hotel rooms.  
The hotel beds.  
The.....

His mind takes him back to tangled sheets, sweat slicked skin, slivers of iridescent blue iris drowned out by blown out pupils, soft moans and the smell of sex. 

He feels embarrassed but he's not sure what he's embarrassed about. 

There are too many people here.  
Too many sounds.  
His mind is drowning in alcohol and he needs to think.  
They need to talk. 

He grabs Sherlock's arm and starts dragging him along.  
Sherlock comes with him far too easily and the embarrassment makes way for red hot guilt. 

There are too many emotions. 

He drags Sherlock through the room, up the stairs and into a bathroom. 

He briefly contemplates going into the upstairs bedroom instead but.....no.....there will be a bed in there.....and to be alone again with Sherlock in a room with a bed......that would be too much......too soon.......worlds colliding.....not here and not now. 

So he makes a left and drags him into the bathroom instead, turns on the light, closes the door and locks it for good measure. 

The bathroom also has a lock. Another advantage over the bedroom. 

Luckily the volume of the music is not quite so pronounced in the bathroom so they are able to have a somewhat normal conversation up here. 

“What are you doing here?” John asks again. His words are harsh and full of accusation and once again guilt rears its ugly head. 

“I was invited”, Sherlock says again. 

“By who?” 

“Greg.”

John doesn't know a Greg. Thank God. He doesn't think he would be able to handle this if he found out that he and Sherlock have mutual friends.  
Not that he is handling the whole situation particularly well at the moment anyway. 

“My girlfriend is here”, John says, “she cannot see us here together.”

“You're the one who approached me and dragged me in here.”  
Sherlock is still so cool and calm and.....just so 'him'.  
John hates him. He really does. He....

“She cannot find out about us”, he says. 

“Once again: your problem, not mine.”

“You're an asshole.”

“Am I really, John? I'm not the one cheating on my girlfriend.”

The words sting, like a slap to the face.  
They hurt because they're true.  
This is all his own doing.  
If John weren't so.....  
If Mary just.....  
If Sherlock.....

“I hate you”, John says. 

This time the cool facade does break for a second and something flits across Sherlock's face.  
It's only there for a second before the cold, amused indifference he is so good at falls back into place but John does see it.  
It looks an awful lot like hurt and sadness....desperation maybe. 

John can relate.  
Once again he feels more than a little guilty.  
This isn't fair. 

Sherlock has moved back towards the bathroom door, his hand outstretched towards the lock in order to open the door and let himself out.  
“Well”, he says, “as fun as this is, I think I will head home after all. Leave you and....whatever her name is.....to enjoy the rest of the evening...and”, he takes one more good look at John and under the scrutiny of his gaze John feels uncomfortable and laid bare “...what remains of the party's alcohol supply apparently.”

Sherlock gives him a tight smile that is all pretense and no substance but before he is able to successfully turn the lock back completely John stops him.  
He's not sure what he's doing, why he's doing it.  
He's acting on impulse.  
Emotions.  
The reasonings of a drunk man.  
But he just knows he cannot and does not want Sherlock to leave right now. 

His hand is on Sherlock's arm and once again that strange emotion flits across Sherlock's sharp features. 

“Wait”, John says, “don't leave.”

Sherlock says nothing but he does move his hand back from the door. 

“I...”, John tries. There are words he wants to say but they get lost somewhere on the way from his brain to his mouth. It's complicated.  
They are complicated.  
What he's feeling is complicated.  
He does not hate Sherlock.  
He hates what Sherlock makes him feel.  
This confused and strange and.....  
Although, that's not true either.  
He doesn't hate anything about Sherlock. Not in the least.  
It's just all so absurd and new and terrifying.  
He wants to tell Sherlock this.  
But he can't.  
The words form in his brain but skip past his tongue and fall out of his mouth uselessly as sentences and words he never meant to utter and he doesn't mean.  
Like: _I hate you_

There is a fine line between love and hate. Both extremes on the same axis. Bend your reality just a bit and they will touch. 

He doesn't know what he's thinking.  
He doesn't know what he wants.  
Sherlock confuses him.  
He's never been this confused in his entire life.  
He doesn't know what to say.  
So he decides to just not speak at all.  
Instead he backs Sherlock up against the door.  
Once again Sherlock goes willingly. This time the strange twisting sensation isn't in John's gut but in his chest. He decides to ignore it.  
Once Sherlock's back hits the closed door John is on him. 

His hands grip tightly onto the lapels of Sherlock's shirt and his lips crash onto Sherlock's slightly parted ones. 

Sherlock lets out a small gasp in surprise and John devours it hungrily. 

Sherlock tastes like cigarettes and guilt. Sadness and despair. 

_This isn't right_ , he thinks. 

It only makes him kiss Sherlock harder. 

He bites Sherlock's lower lip and the sharp taste of blood fills his mouth.  
It's intoxicating.  
Invigorating. 

Sherlock moans and there are hands on him.  
Sherlock's hands. Working on his belt and the button and zip of his jeans. 

Sherlock dislodges their lips just long enough to make a desperate plea:  
“Fuck me”, he says. The words are no more than a whispered breath between them but they are enough to do things to John.

He wants, oh how he wants.  
Has always wanted. 

Sherlock's lips are swollen, spit slicked. His breath comes out in short and shallow pants. And his eyes.....there's nothing but pupil. Large pools of black that John finds himself drowning in. There are secrets in Sherlock's eyes. And answers. Answers he will find nowhere else. He's desperate for them.  
Desperate for Sherlock. 

He wants.  
Oh, how he wants. 

“I don't have any....”, he starts to say but Sherlock just shakes his head. 

“I don't care”, Sherlock says. 

And that's that.  
John really should be more careful.  
With himself.  
With Sherlock. 

But if Sherlock doesn't care then....neither does he. 

It only takes a couple of seconds to open up Sherlock's ridiculously tight jeans as well. John pushes them down together with his underwear to halfway down his thighs.  
There is no need for more. He doesn't have time for more. 

There is a sink just to the left of the door and with a hand between his shoulder blades John makes Sherlock bend down over it.  
Sherlock goes down willingly. Oh so willingly.  
Sherlock is hard.  
John opens his own jeans further and takes himself in hand. 

He can't remember the last time he's been this hard.  
Some fluid is already gathered at the tip of his cock and the head looks swollen, red and angry. He needs to be inside Sherlock right now. 

But it seems he has some coherent thought left at least.  
He can't hurt Sherlock. He doesn't want to hurt Sherlock.  
Maybe he's already hurt him.  
But he doesn't want to think about that right now.  
They have nothing on them here and he doesn't want to go and look around the bathroom.  
He doesn't want to take his eyes off of Sherlock splayed out in front of him.  
Can't take his eyes off of Sherlock.  
His own breath is coming in short gasps as well now too. 

In the end he just decides to use spit.  
Sherlock doesn't seem to care.  
John doesn't care, he seems to have gone way beyond caring a long time ago. 

It takes a fairly generous amount of spit and three fingers to open Sherlock up sufficiently.  
Sherlock is writhing and moaning on his fingers as he twists and spreads them inside the warm safety of his body and John cannot possibly wait a second longer.  
He takes himself in hand again and lines himself up with Sherlock's now somewhat stretched entrance and pushes in in one harsh thrust.  
Sherlock yells out in pleasure and John feels his knees buckle form the sudden rush of sensations.  
He gives Sherlock a second or two to get adjusted. He gives himself a second or two.  
It's been about three weeks since he has last been with Sherlock.  
It's been too long.  
Far too long.  
He feels as if he's just now waking up from a three week slumber.  
He never feels as alive as he does when he is with Sherlock.  
Surely it's the alcohol that's making him feel things this intensely right now. Surely....  
He needs to not think so much.  
He needs to not feel so much.  
He needs to feel everything. Everything that Sherlock can give him.  
Sherlock is gorgeous. Stretched out underneath him. A slim frame with tight muscles, dark silken curls and the fairest skin John has ever seen on a man.  
John bends himself forward and gently pulls the fingers of his left hand through those mesmerizing strands of hair. He places his right hand on Sherlock's hip to keep himself from crushing Sherlock completely with the weight of his body.  
Underneath him Sherlock makes an impatient noise.  
John decides to start moving.  
He wants to go slow but he finds he can't.  
That's the thing with Sherlock, it's always all or nothing.  
There is no in between.  
There is no going slow.  
There is just this.  
Explosive intensity or dreary sleep-walking monotony.  
He doesn't know which he prefers.  
Or maybe he does.  
Maybe he just tells himself that he doesn't.  
He really doesn't want to think right now. 

He thrusts even harder and Sherlock's breathing turns into a string of loud moans as his breath fogs up the mirror that hangs above the sink. 

He's being too loud.  
People will hear. 

“Sssssh”, John grits out between clenched teeth, he finds it hard to talk and fuck like an animal at the same time. Too many stimuli. Too much pleasure. Too much Sherlock. Too much of everything.  
“People..... are......going to......hear you”, he says. Every word punctuated by a violent thrust into the willing body underneath him. 

Sherlock seems to understand because on the next thrust he buries his face in the crook of his right arm muffling his groans of pleasure just enough. 

Sherlock is close.  
He can feel it.  
The walls of his insides fluttering around John's cock erratically.  
John is seeing stars. He's seeing things he's never seen before. He's having trouble breathing.  
And then Sherlock comes and John almost blacks out.  
There is most likely a fair amount of semen on the cabinet underneath the sink but he finds he doesn't care.  
Sherlock has gone all soft and pliant and blissed out and as John keeps on pumping inside of his body he still groans softly every time John bottoms out.  
John kisses the back of his neck in apology. 

“Almost there”, he whispers, “almost there....almost.....”

And then he is there.  
He releases inside of Sherlock's body.  
The world around them seems to disappear.  
There is just the two of them.  
The combined sound of their labored breathing the only music left in the world.  
John kisses the back of Sherlock's neck again. 

_I don't hate you_ , he thinks, _I don't hate you at all_

****************************************  
When they both regain their breaths and their strengths somewhat they have a quick wash and dress themselves again.  
Neither of them says anything.  
John doesn't even know what he should say.  
Once again there are words there but he just can't quite find them.  
When they are both presentable again Sherlock goes to unlock the door.  
Right before he leaves John does find one thing to say: 

“I'm sorry”, he says. 

The words are not nearly sufficient for everything that he feels. They are not nearly enough. Not even close. They are not even what he means.  
But he hopes that Sherlock will read between the lines and understand what he is so desperately trying to say anyway. 

Sherlock gives him a soft smile with that little hint of 'something else' hidden just beneath the surface. 

“It's fine”, Sherlock says, “you have my number.”

And then he is gone.  
And John is alone in a strange bathroom.  
His clothes are a rumpled mess, his skin is sweaty and his thighs are sore. 

“I don't hate you”, he says.  
To no one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no fun here, only angst. 
> 
> Please leave a comment if it so behooves you.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken form the song "I know you know" by Charming Disaster. The first line of that song was the inspiration for this fic.  
> I haven't written anything in ages and then I do write again and I write....this......  
> It was just an idea that wouldn't let me go.  
> Somewhere in the back of my mind now resides the idea to turn it into a multi-chapter fic.....but......who knows......


End file.
